


The Eyes Don't Lie (Neither Mine Nor Yours)

by Joana789



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, 5 Times, 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Five Times, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Scott, POV Scott, Panic Attack, a little at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joana789/pseuds/Joana789
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Okay, Scott has no idea what has been going on between the two of them but something has for sure.</p><p>or</p><p>Five times Scott saw something he didn't understand and one time he finally did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Eyes Don't Lie (Neither Mine Nor Yours)

**Author's Note:**

> Scott's impossibly oblivious in this one.  
> (Also, why is everything I write for this fandom over 7k words long? I have no idea.)

 

 

01.

When Stiles storms into the hospital, Scott’s right behind him.

He spots his mom the very same moment Stiles trips over his shoelaces, cursing under his breath, and he barely manages to catch him by his elbow, saving from a rather close, very unpleasant encounter with the cold tiles of the floor before dragging him over to the nurses desk.

“Mom,” he starts, kind of pointlessly – Melissa has already noticed them, of course, as have half of the staff in the hallway. She looks tired and her hair is slightly dishevelled; she smells like a weird mixture of worry and relief. Her gaze lands on Scott for the shortest moment before moving to rest on Stiles’ features instead.

And Stiles looks, Scott knows, just as panicked as he _smells_ of fear, a strong, sharp scent he doubts he’ll ever truly get used to. He’s shuddering slightly, his heart rate just a bit too quick, and Scott’s been telling him to try and calm down a little since they left the house fifteen minutes ago, but it does not seem to work at all. He knows it’s not a prologue for a panic attack – he’s been with Stiles through enough of those to be sure, really – but it is, nevertheless, a sign of dread so strong – deep, somehow, primal – that for a split second Scott swears he can nearly _taste_ it in the air.

His mom needs no more than a single glance at Stiles’ face, the unhealthy pallor of his skin and wide eyes, to cut the rant already building up on his tongue.

“Stiles, your dad’s going to be okay,” she says, voice half-stern and professional and half-motherly. Stiles takes a breath, as if to reply, but Mom just makes a _stop talking_ gesture at him, the palm of her right hand outstretched, and goes on, serious. “He’ll be alright. He’s had a mild concussion and is a little bruised and shaken but it’s nothing too serious.”

“But what…” Stiles splutters, then loses the words, whatever they were. Scott puts a hand on his shoulder, a sign he hopes Stiles will read as one of reassurance, and squeezes. Stiles swallows, audibly enough for even human ears to catch the sound. “Why is he even here? What happened?”

There’s not even a trace of relief in his voice, only alert and tension.

Something in Melissa’s brown eyes softens just a bit.

“He was attacked,” she explains, in a tone a bit gentler as well. Stiles opens his mouth again, so she hurries with further clarification, not yet entirely finished. “We don’t know what it was that lashed out at him exactly but probably some kind of wild animal. Mountain lion, most likely.”

The tone of her voice leaves no doubt it was, most likely, anything _but_ a mountain lion.

And distantly, in the back of his head, Scott expects to hear Stiles’ voice loud, an exclamation, a shout of disbelief – _mountain lion, my ass!_ – but only realises it when nothing like that happens. Everything Stiles does is giving a nod, silent and tense, a stiff, short movement of his head. He looks at the ground for the briefest second, then lifts his gaze up on Melissa.

“Is he conscious?” he asks, letting what Mom said be, not making a single comment about it, which is so unusual for him that it actually makes Scott’s half-formed response die in his throat, too. Something seems to be hiding in the question, suspiciously similar to hesitation. “Can I see him?”

Melissa nods. “He might be a little drowsy from the painkillers, but other than that, your dad’s completely okay,” she says – repeats the information so that it finally sinks in. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

Stiles blinks at her.

“Thank you,” he says, just a bit of the tension gone from his voice. Mom smiles, an amicable curve of her lips.

“It’s not me you should be thanking, really,” she says.

She leads them to one of the rooms down the hall, to the area when it’s noticeably calmer than in the hallway, and just a bit darker, too, the fluorescent lights not as blinding somehow. They stop in front of one of the rooms – number 104, Scott reads – and Stiles is just about to enter, his hand in the door knob, when something catches his attention and he turns his head.

When Scott follows the way his friend’s gaze shifted, he’s met with the sight of Derek Hale.

He’s sitting in one of the chairs by the opposite wall, looking at the ground, his elbows propped on his thighs, whole body slouching. It’s so unexpected - to see him here and now, of all the places and times, that Scott just stares for a moment, feeling a frown slowly settling into his features. The hospital always brims over with the strangest, various scents – that’s probably why he couldn’t smell Derek in here at first, Scott thinks, although he’s still pretty sure he should’ve been able to at least sense his presence somehow, this way or another. Now, though – now he definitely catches a scent of Derek, and learns that not only does the werewolf look tired, but smells of fatigue, too, and adrenaline, with just barely a hint of apprehension to it.

Yeah, Scott’s definitely gotten a little better at recognising scents recently.

“What is Derek Hale doing here?” he asks quietly, simply because Stiles, for some reason, hasn’t phrased the question yet, eyes still glued to the werewolf.

Mom shifts her weight, then peers at Stiles, even though it was Scott who spoke.

“Oh,” she starts. “Actually… he was the one to bring the Sheriff here.” Stiles immediately moves to look at her now, eyebrows arching up in surprise. “He’s completely fine, unharmed, he healed of course, but we still had to run a couple of tests before letting him go home, he came in here wearing a T-shirt soaked in blood. I think I don’t have to say it looked quite shady.” Mom sighs. “I told you it wasn’t me you should be thanking, Stiles.”

“He… _Derek_ brought him here?” Stiles manages, staring at Melissa in puzzlement, repeating the words just for the sheer feeling of the question on his tongue, most likely. Mom nods in response, a gesture as quick as always; it still takes Stiles a couple of seconds too many to tear his eyes away from it, though.

And when he does, it’s only in order to look at Derek again.

By now, Derek’s obviously noticed the three of them, and heard too, no matter how tired and exhausted he could possibly be. His expression’s pretty blank when he lifts his head to get a glimpse, neutral; Scott can’t tell what’s the cause of it, whether it really is the fatigue Hale so strongly smells of, or just simple indifference or lack of any care or yet something else, but then again, it’s not like he’s ever known before. Derek’s gaze stays on him for just a second before completely bypassing his mom, then resting on Stiles.

And Stiles, weirdly, seems to take it as a sign of something – what, Scott has no idea.

“You,” he mouths, then crosses the space between where he’s standing and Derek’s sitting - quickly enough to not even give Scott a chance to open his mouth, his werewolf reflexes be damned - four long steps enough to do so, and only stops right in front of Derek, face to face. Derek doesn’t move, not turning his gaze away from Stiles, either; Scott can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not.

“You,” Stiles says again, a bit louder this time, more clearly, but he seems stiff. “You found him? Helped my dad?”

He doesn’t seem nervous or angry, but isn’t entirely calm, either, and suddenly there’s something to the way his voice sounds that confuses Scott quite a bit.

Derek, expression still blank apart from a tiny crease between his brows Scott wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t paying attention, simply nods.

And then something changes in Stiles’ face, a single move of Derek’s enough to cause the alteration – first, a glimpse flickers in his eyes, only to vanish as quickly as it appeared. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, then closes it, opens again – no sound makes a way out from between his lips. Scott blinks, observing the scene with a frown, and he kind of wants to tell Stiles to leave Derek alone because he doesn’t know what it is that Stiles wants from Derek exactly – if the look on Hale’s face is anything to go by, he doesn’t have much of an idea himself either – but whatever it is, it makes Scott strangely uncomfortable.

“Stiles, come –“ he even starts, trying to break the silence that has crept its way into the hallway somehow.

Then, though, cuts himself off.

“Thank you, then,” Stiles says, a sentence filled with _something_ , eyes still on Derek, not paying attention to Scott in the least – and he quickly touches Derek’s shoulder, as if it were to accompany the words. It is a fleeting brush of his fingers, a touch barely there, hand as unsteady as his voice; Scott, distantly, still expects Derek’s response to it to be shoving Stiles away, like he always does, or grumbling some rude response at him, or frowning.

He doesn’t do any of that. Derek only nods after what it seems like a moment of strange hesitation, as if Stiles has caught him off guard, even though the boy’s touch is long gone since it didn’t even last a full second.

And then Stiles turns on his heel just like that, heading for the door of the room his dad’s in, vanishing behind it in an instant, and when he does, from the corner of his eye Scott catches a glimpse of his mom just barely smiling.

She excuses herself after that, saying she needs to get back to work – _See you at home, Scott!_ – and as Scott follows her with his eyes, he tells himself he did not notice the way Derek’s gaze seemed to linger on the door number 104 for a second too long to be considered ordinary before he turned it away.

Suddenly, Scott feels oddly out of place.

 

 

* * *

 

 

02.

“Oh my God,” Stiles whines.

Scott agrees.

Derek’s loft is a complete mess but he doesn’t think any of them could actually care less right now. There are stacks of papers on the floor – poor remainders of the research Stiles has _just_ finished conducing, really, or at least it feels like that – and there’s mud on the carpet because none of them exactly bothered taking off their shoes yet and Scott thinks one of the pillows is ripped for some reason so there are feathers all over the room and he’s never been so exhausted _in his life_.

“I’m gonna die,” he mutters. The wound on his chest has already healed, mostly, but there’s still a sharp sting deriving from it, spreading in a way that makes breathing more difficult than it should be. There’s still blood on his clothes he’d get rid of right now if he weren’t so _drained_.

“No, you’re not,” Stiles responses weakly from his spot on the couch, where he has curled up into a ball and closed his eyes and is, most likely, trying to calm down and get rid of his own stress. Scott can feel its strong scent mixing with the nearly overwhelming odour of blood. He looks at Stiles for a moment, trying to see where any possible wounds of his could be – Stiles’ pain has always smelled more like anxiety than anything else -  but Stiles is not facing him so Scott gives up after a couple of seconds, having failed to notice a thing.

He sometimes forgets that humans don’t heal as quickly as werewolves do, whether it be body or mind.

Derek sighs, squished into the corner of his own couch since it’s Stiles who’s taking up most of the space there – somehow, Derek hasn’t kicked him out of there yet. The werewolf looks terrible himself, too – the cuts on his arm and cheek are only starting to heal now, a change in their appearance barely noticeable and progressing slowly; his jacket’s in pieces and he’s practically covered in mud. Scott briefly wonders who actually looks worse – he himself or Derek or Stiles.

“I am,” he says, shoving the worry about both of them aside for now since Stiles seems to sound okay, his voice as sarcastic and smartass-y as ever, and Derek buries his head in his hands, a clear sign he’s not up to any heart-to-heart talk. “I am, I swear I’ll trip and die of exhaustion the second I stand up and it’s all going to be your fault, and your genius plan's.”

He doesn’t exactly mean to insult Stiles’ plan, because many of his ideas has saved their sorry asses more than once, he still keeps it in mind. It’s just that today has been a very stressful day, filled with a lot of supernatural creatures – werewolves, elves and faeries locked in the same room are not a pretty picture, he knows it now – and pain and howling and… he’s just simply tired. He gets easily irritated when he’s tired.

“Hey, leave the plan alone, dude, it was great,” Stiles says, then moves so that he can look at Scott without having to crane his neck too much – in the process of it, he nearly falls off the couch. Derek shoots him a glare, looking as if he’s considering pushing Stiles off that couch completely. “It’s not my fault those faeries were there, it’s not like I could’ve predicted that.”

That’s fair enough, but Scott goes on nevertheless, just because he’s in the mood for it, and tired and hungry and uncomfortable.

“You should’ve,” he says, but his tone is not biting enough for Stiles to take offense, he knows. “You were in charge of the planning, we were in charge of the fighting.”

“And look how well it went,” Stiles snaps at him, trying to sit up and failing miserably. “All these bruises and cuts you guys got me are not exactly the nicest gift I’ve received so far in my life, thanks. I don’t heal like you do, you know.”

“I know,” Scott starts, quieter this time because he actually does feel pretty bad every time Stiles gets hurt – which, by the way, has been happening disturbingly often in recent times. Then, though, he just goes on. “I’m not saying it to tell you off, I’m saying that so next time something like this doesn’t even get a chance to happen.”

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, looking all defensive all of a sudden, but then Derek shoots them both a glare, which, well, _works_.

“Can you just shut up, Scott?” Derek mumbles, on a verge of a growl, having apparently decided a simple scowl was not enough. This is how he usually acts whenever he’s exceptionally angry or in pain and Scott’s already gotten used to that, so he just shrugs, letting it slide.

Stiles' expression, opposing a second ago, has now transformed into a smug one. Scott narrows his eyes at that.

“Yeah, Scott,” he agrees, grinning. “Just let a man heal in peace and silence, why don’t you?”

Now Derek actually growls, only that it’s specifically at Stiles, and that – that’s unexpected.

“You shut up, too, Stiles,” Derek grumbles, his voice even sharper. Scott observes as Stiles’ self-satisfied expression melts into one of confusion, frowning himself because he doesn’t think he can recall the last time Derek told Stiles to shut up explicitly and not as a form of teasing. “Nobody has time for your pity party right now, so do us all a favour.”

And Stiles scowls, ready to fight back because he’s nothing if not a warrior, especially if Derek Hale is involved, but then he seems to… just change his mind, losing whatever steam he was supposed to be working off all in one go. He swallows the words, then ducks his head for just a second before shaking it in a gesture of disbelief, or something close to it, anyway.

For the briefest moment, Stiles looks disturbingly similar to upset.

“I wasn’t talking about myself, I meant _you_ , you asshole,” he says, whatever it is that shows in his face reflecting in his voice now, too, not gone quickly enough – like offence, but softer and stranger somehow. Derek looks down on him, still annoyed, probably planning on snapping at Stiles again, but then freezes upon noticing whatever it is on Stiles’ face, no words leaving his mouth in the end.

Stiles just shoots him an weird glare.

“I’m gonna go grab something to eat,” he mutters kind of flatly, finally pushing himself up from the couch, then heading out of the room and into the kitchen.

For a second, Scott wonders if it’s just him or if there really is a look of mild annoyance and slight guilt on Derek’s face – and if Stiles decided to ignore it or simply didn’t catch it at all.

“Hey, get me something, too, dude!” Scott yells after his friend, if only to distract himself from suddenly feeling mildly confounded.

Derek heaves a sigh, running a hand through his hair, and mutters, “ _Goddammit_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

03.

“No, this is _not_ the right location,” Derek says sternly.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at that, challenging.

“It _is_ ,” he says, again, stubbornly. “It is, I’m telling you.”

He leans over the desk, tapping the map with his Sharpie, drawing attention to some place Scott, even if he tried and squinted, cannot see from his spot on the bed. “Here’s the hospital, right,” Stiles says surely, circling the building swiftly, then scribbling something next to it, judging by the sounds his marker makes against the paper. “We go up, here are the settlement we talked about.” Some more scribbling. “And there are the abandoned buildings Scott checked. All secure, no signs of life around, a safe choice for any supernatural creature gracing us with its presence. It’s the place, Derek, you have it all laid out.”

Derek frowns, silent for a couple of seconds, although not long enough for Stiles to start celebrating his win in their more-less argument, then stretches across the table and points at something in the corner of the map.

“It’s going to be here,” he says, tapping the place twice for emphasis. “Downtown, the warehouse.”

Stiles actually snorts at that.

“That’s a _classic_ , come on,” he mutters, but looks more closely at the area Derek pointed at anyway.

Scott sighs, looking around.

He’s not even sure what he’s doing in here anymore. Technically, he was supposed to help at the research and give Stiles the information about those abandoned buildings if he needed any, since it actually is Scott who was doing the surveillance, he admits. As far as he’s concerned, though, Derek and Stiles are doing just fine without his help, especially considering the fact that he’s been here with them for over an hour now and so far they’ve only asked him something twice. Scott’s not really good at research, anyway – it has always been Stiles’ thing, and Derek’s.

When he looks at them now, how engrossed in studying the map they are, he actually starts to wonder if they even remember he’s still in the same room.

“Why would they change the location like that, the houses are the most logical to choose,” he hears Stiles mutter, more to himself than to Derek, though. Scott turns his gaze back to him automatically.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Since when are ghouls _logical_?” he says, and the sentence doesn’t really sound like a question.

Stiles shrugs, looking a little dissatisfied. “I don’t know, this is stupid,” he spits, the frustration showing in his voice, too. “So what, you’re saying we should, like, scan the whole town, just in case, since we don’t really know where they’re going to settle anyway? That is, except your enigmatic suspicions about the warehouse.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“ _No_ ,” is the answer, the usual amount of sass and a tiny hint of annoyance incorporated in it. “I’m saying I have a feeling they’re not going to be where you want them to be, Stiles.”

Stiles gasps, looking, for some reason, somehow offended – or at least pretending to.

“I don’t _want_ them to be anywhere, thank you very much, you know,” he says, because he wouldn’t be worthy of the name _Stiles Stilinski_ if he missed out on an opportunity to nit-pick, of course. Then he continues, though, before Derek gets a chance to interrupt him. “And how can you even be so sure, _Mr._ _Whatever Comes To Town, I’ll Track It Down_ , huh?”

“I just know,” Derek says sternly, leaning against the desk. “My… my wolf just knows.”

And Scott immediately expects a retort from Stiles because he’s already learned that once those two start arguing, not many things in the world can put an end to it fairly quickly; it seems like Derek expects it, too, if the look of mild interest and pique and something else on his face is any indication.

But Stiles just stares at him.

“Wh… wait, what?” he eventually asks, words tumbling past his lips as his slightly annoyed expression – the _I’m the researcher here, why aren’t you listening to me?_ one – melts into a look of confusion, and then a thing close to amusement. “Your _what_?”

Derek sends him a strange glare.

“My wolf,” he repeats calmly, frowning, probably hoping to finally have ended the argument somehow. Automatically, Scott furrows his brows, too, because Stiles seems to sound surprised to hear the word. It’s not like that’s anything new, though – Scott uses it, too, as an abbreviation for _werewolf_ , obviously; for the werewolf side of him, much different from the human one. He’s pretty sure he’s used it a fair amount of times while talking to Stiles already.

Then, he frowns even harder when Stiles, all of a sudden and for some reason he doesn’t know, bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” he wheezes out, almost tripping over the words, then going back to giggling again, the sound of it loud and honest, making his whole body shake with it. He grips the edge of the desk, and Derek shoots him a strange, equally confused and annoyed glare.

“What?” he demands, then repeating when Stiles just waves his hand at it, dismissing the question in favour of yet another although not so loud laughing fit. “ _What?_ ”

Stiles only responds when he finally calms down.

“Ah, sorry, I just…” Shaking his head, he grins and the smile nearly splits his face in half. “Jeez, it just reminded me, you know.” A snort. “Somehow, ‘ _my wolf_ ‘sounds like a really, _really_ bad euphemism for your…” He actually motions at Derek, makes some sort of a vague gesture, and Scott only gets what it means when Stiles snorts again, not able to keep it from bursting out of him. “A very private part of you.”

Derek just stares at him for a long moment; Stiles just grins at him, chuckling, and waits, brown eyes glinting mischievously.

“Are you even _sane_?” the werewolf finally spits and it’s enough for Stiles to start laughing again. “What is wrong with you?”

Stiles laughs so hard he actually cries from it. The sound of his giggles distracts Scott enough to nearly miss the way Derek seems to actually smile his own little, equally amused and resigned smile, a curve of his lips barely there.

And yup. Scott’s 100% positive they actually forgot about him still being in the same room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

04.

Turns out, though, Derek was right about the location, because the ghouls really do settle in the darkest, most hideous part of the warehouse on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, in the basement underground, first squeezed into its corner and then getting control over the rest of the building, floor by floor, quickly making their way up. They only show themselves at night, Stiles tells them all as they’re preparing to outface and expel those awful creatures, his voice low with badly concealed nervousness and exasperation. For Scott, it makes little of a difference since his senses only sharpen after the dusk, which is convenient, to say the least; for Stiles, though, it doesn’t really work this way.

And the ghouls drag them all through _hell_.

They are swift and rapid and nimble, overwhelmingly so, all quick dodges and speedy attacks neither Scott nor anyone else really expected, not to this extent. The ghouls are brainsick, almost, thirsty for blood and crazily violent from the very moment Scott steps into the warehouse, but they’re sly, too, well aware of the danger and somehow ready for it, in all their insanity. There’s a full dozen of them, and they first hide in every little place that can be used as hideout, only to jump out of nowhere next second. The sounds they make – ear-splitting, high-pitched screams and stifled hisses and gurgles that remind Scott of someone being choked – are as hair-rising as their actions and appearance.

Eventually, though – even if it takes much more time than they’d hoped it would – Scott and the others manage to get rid of them. It’s not a pretty picture to look at, a lot of claws and bare teeth and eyes flashing while they do so, then blood smudged all over the floor after they’ve finished, but the danger is gone, in the end, and it is all that matters for now.

So when Scott finally stands up from a crouch, his head spinning and muscles slightly aching, he just takes a while to take everything in.

Derek is tired for sure, but doesn’t have a scratch on him, so Scott takes it as a good sign – the fact that his teeth and claws are no longer out to be seen, too, because it means the hazard’s really gone. Lydia, nearby, looks considerably worse, her usually perfectly styled hair now a mess, makeup a little smeared and clothes crumpled. She’s leaning heavily against the wall, right between Scott and Stiles, saying something to the latter, and Stiles –

Stiles, Scott realises with a slight wave of worry, looks the worst out of the four of them here. His eyes are wide and there’s a cut on his cheek and bloodstains on his shirt, and it looks… horrible, really, and scary. Stiles’ hands are shaking a tiny bit, and his breathing is not as even as it should be, a little ragged in a way that is not caused by exertion.

Lydia might not know this – what it means, the beginning of what that is exactly – but Scott does.

“It’s fine,” Stiles answers whatever question Lydia has just asked him, but the words don’t sound genuine – they _are_ not genuine, not true.

And as much as it unsettles him, Scott also _understands_. He’d lost sight of Stiles for a while amid all the fighting and growling and violence, too busy defending himself to keep track of anyone else at the time, but now he sees – Stiles’ bat is in the corner of the room, smashed to flinders, mere splinters left of it. Several thoughts flash in his mind – when did the ghouls destroy it exactly, did it happen at the beginning of the combat and if so, how did Stiles manage to keep up the fight without his only weapon? – and suddenly, although it’s all over now, he’s a little scared, too.

“Stiles, hey,” Scott can’t help but say, in a voice he always uses at times like these, trained by now, quiet and serene despite his own fear originating behind his sternum, and now all eyes are on Stiles, Derek’s too, everybody watching him cautiously.

“I’m fine, I just need a little…” Stiles stutters, words strangled a little, then swallows. “I’m just…”

And Scott can already see the start of a panic attack, lurking in the way Stiles’ hands ball up into fists and his voice falters, so his body almost reacts on its own, automatically, moving to try and help Stiles calm down, because he can’t remember the last time his friend’s had a panic attack, but he’s clearly starting to have one right now.

“Hey,” he says again, approaching him in three quick steps, brows furrowed. Then, he reaches to touch his shoulder, knowing it always helps, but –

Derek beats him to it.

“Stiles,” Derek says, putting a hand on Stiles’ elbow, but not squeezing, only spreading his fingers over the fabric of Stiles’ jagged shirt. He bends his head a little, trying to look Stiles in the face and he lets him, swallowing thickly again.

Scott wants to speak again, follow the pattern only he’s familiar with because he knows how to deal with this, but then there’re Lydia’s fingers curling around his wrist, and she’s pulling him away, nails digging into his skin. He stumbles a couple of steps back – she’s surprisingly strong, really – as Lydia shoots him a glare he can’t quite decipher.

“Stiles, breathe,” Derek says, voice low and calm, oddly unlike him.

“I thought –“ Stiles starts, then loses whatever words he had on his tongue, breathing harshly. “Sorry, I just didn’t expect… There’s so much blood and I thought they were gonna –“

“Breathe,” Derek just repeats, focused on Stiles completely. His hand moves up Stiles’ arm, all the way to his shoulder and then farther, to his neck, only stopping when he can swipe his thumb over the line of Stiles’ jaw. “Just breathe, okay? Focus on your breathing, it’s all going to be fine.”

Stiles grits his teeth, but he does force an inhale, then exhale, breathing shallowly, and it actually seems to work for a second. Then, though, he looks up straight at Derek and Scott sees, clear as day, that his eyes are still wide, frantic.

He wants to go up to him again, but then Lydia’s grip of steel only seems to tighten, for some reason.

“How did I not see it all coming?” Stiles says, voice still shaky. “I thought we had it… all covered, Derek, God, there’s so much _blood_ in here –“ He forces a ragged exhale. “There were so many of them, they… broke my bat, I didn’t know what to do and I thought –“

“Stiles, they’re gone,” Derek says a little more sternly, tilting Stiles’ head up just a bit. For a second, Stiles just stares, trembling, so Derek repeats, “They’re gone, the danger’s gone, alright? Don’t think about it, it’s all safe now.”

“I know,” Stiles says in response, but doesn’t actually sound like he realises it. There’s an edge to his voice Scott doesn’t recognise. “It’s safe, I know.”

And then, abruptly, he just wraps his arms around Derek in an embrace.

And Scott can’t help but gasp a little, because he has no idea what has been going on between those two, but _something_ has for sure. For a split second, he expects Derek to push Stiles away even despite him having a panic attack, shove at him angrily with a growl of _What are you doing?_ – this is Derek, after all, and that’s how he and Stiles work, simply – but it never happens. Actually, it’s quite the opposite; not only does Derek let Stiles hug him, but he sneaks an arm around his waist, too, pulling him in.

Stiles burrows his head in the crook of Derek’s neck and his grip on Derek’s jacket tightens.

This is when Lydia mutters, “Come on, Scott, we should check if everything’s properly taken care of.” That’s a lame excuse, and he almost says it out loud, but a hint of something in Lydia’s voice eventually keeps him from doing so.

As they go, turning away and heading into the next room, Scott catches some sentences spoken in quiet voices – a “ _You aren’t hurt anywhere, are you?”_ from Derek and a “ _I think I might’ve broken a rib or two”_ from Stiles, followed by a guttural, not entirely human growl of ire.

The last thing he catches, even though he and Lydia are already in the hallway, is a deep inhale and Derek saying, voice almost soft, “Let’s get out of here, okay?”

Stiles answers, “Okay.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

05.

Scott wakes up to the sound of someone’s cell phone buzzing right next to his ear.

At first, he thinks he’s still dreaming, in his bed and alone and not having to get up in at least four hours, and therefore refuses to open his eyes. The sound doesn’t stop, though, and Scott doesn’t remember setting the alarm or anything, so someone must be calling him. _If it’s Stiles, I swear to God_ , he thinks torpidly, not even bothering to actually finish the thought but eventually cracking an eye open.

It’s not Stiles, and it’s not Scott’s phone. He’s not even in his own bed, he realises, but then recognises the place before any kind of fear gets a chance to kick in. It’s Derek’s loft, he identifies, and he’s lying on his back on the floor, with… Kira sprawled half on top of him. It is her phone that’s woken him up, he sees, an e-mail notification lit up on the screen.

His neck hurts a little, but everything he can do without waking Kira up is move his head, so Scott does exactly that, squinting a little.

The TV is on for some reason, the screen dark but not quite black entirely, colouring the room some kind of barely noticeable – even for his werewolf eyes – bluish shade. Scott stares at it for a few seconds before remembering drowsily that, oh, right, they were playing video games, stayed up late, that’s why. Kira and Lydia basically whooped their asses and there was some injured manly pride involved, it was fun, though. They must have all fallen asleep at some point, even though Scott can’t recall when exactly. In the dim light, he makes out the sight of Lydia curled up in the armchair, and when he turns his head the other way, he manages to discern Derek and Stiles, too, on the couch.

They are leaning on each other, Derek’s arm thrown over Stiles’ shoulders, Stiles’ fingers tangled in the fabric of Derek’s t-shirt, a loose grip. He might be drooling a little, Scott thinks, because his mouth is parted just slightly, but his expression’s serene, and Scott can’t help but wonder when he’s last seen it like that.

Then he watches as Derek moves a bit in his sleep – or at least that’s what Scott thinks – then stills, only to, after what it feels like a good minute, open his eyes, although just barely.

Kira’s phone must have woken him up, too, Scott realises, damn their werewolf super hearing. Derek doesn’t notice that Scott’s awake as well, probably doesn’t even know what it was that woke him up in the first place, chances are too sluggish and languid still, but he does catch a sight of the TV still on and slightly frowns at that.

“God,” he mutters, voice just on the verge of husky, then lazily looks around in search for the remote control, spotting it on the coffee table just a few seconds later.

When he moves, leaning forward just a bit, Stiles makes a noise in his sleep and clutches at Derek’s shirt.

Derek stills, as if reminded only now that Stiles is practically lying on top of him somehow, then looks at the boy and eventually moves again, very slowly – much more slowly now, careful not to wake him up – turns the TV off and leans back on the couch. Stiles automatically snuggles in, makes another barely audible sound in the back of his throat and winds an arm around his waist. Derek huffs at that quietly, expression hard to read – and not because of the dark around them at all.

Then, he turns his head and presses his lips to Stiles’ hair.

Derek closes his eyes and goes back to sleep in no time after that, his breathing evening out just a few minutes later, Stiles still sleeping soundly against him, drooling on Derek’s shirt.

The next half hour Scott spends staring at the ceiling because his mind’s suddenly _racing_.

 

 

* * *

 

 05. + 1

The door opens without a sound when he comes in shuffling, but then again, it’s not like he’d expect anything different at this point.

“Derek?” Scott says, loud enough for Derek to hear him even if he’s upstairs, then frowns upon getting no reply a few seconds later. He takes off his jacket – out of habit more than anything else; Derek texted him to come and pick up some book he had to give back to Deaton, and since Scott has a shift at the clinic today anyway, it’s only convenient. The apartment seems empty, though, despite the door being left unlocked, and he can’t help but feel his frown deepening as he looks around.

Maybe he’s been spending a little too much time around Derek lately, he thinks, considering all the scowling and stuff.

Scott does head into the living room in the end, though, wherever Derek might or might not be at the moment, because he’s already here anyway, so he might as well take the book with him as he leaves.

“Derek?” he calls once again as he goes, just to be on the safe side, then waits a couple of seconds, but again, he gets no response.

The book’s sitting on the coffee table, as if already waiting for him so Scott simply takes it and goes back into the hallway, quickly and deftly, quietly, when… he catches a glimpse of a movement in the kitchen he’s passing by this very moment.

It’s Derek. And Stiles. And they’re –

It’s Derek and Stiles _kissing_.

And at first he just kind of doesn’t understand what it is that he’s looking at and he stops dead in his tracks, staring; there are so many thoughts in his head he gets lost in them himself for a split second – a ridiculous _So Derek is home in the end!_ and _What the hell?_ and _Why didn’t Stiles tell me anything?_ and a simple _Jesus Christ_. Then it occurs to him that the two of them must be really distracted if they didn’t hear him coming in and calling for Derek twice.

Or maybe they’re just focused on something else – because they sure look like it, seriously. Stiles is sitting on top of the kitchen table, legs in the air and spread, making room for Derek, whose hands are resting on Stiles’ thighs. Stiles’ fingers are in Derek’s hair, pulling slightly, and he makes a breathless noise when Derek tilts his head, probably doing something Scott _does not_ want to think about, and kind of rocks into him, and _Jesus_ , they are so awfully into it it’s almost surreal.

Scott steps back quickly, getting out of their possible line of sight, equally weirded out and confused and feeling as if the temperature in the room just rose a few degrees.

He wonders how is it possible he actually missed all the noises Derek and Stiles have been making when he first came in, because now they seem _obscenely loud,_ especially to his enhanced sense of hearing.

“Nn, Stiles,” he hears, and it makes him freeze again, because he’d really like to get out of here but isn’t exactly fond of the idea of being seen by them, either – Stiles would _never_ let him forget this. “Stiles, stop.”

Derek doesn’t sound like he’s able to muster enough cogency right now.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles only mutters in response and, judging by the sounds, goes in for another kiss, until Derek breaks it again.

“Scott will be here any minute,” he says in a weird voice Scott has never heard before.

In some other freaking dimension, this would be absolutely hilarious, he thinks, because he’s _right there_ in the hallway, standing as still as possible and trying not to breathe so that Derek can’t hear him. In this world and universe it’s completely not funny, though. It’s the most _not funny_ thing that has happened in his life so far, because _his best friend and Derek Hale_ are kissing next door and he can hear every sound and they are apparently… what? A couple now? Dating?

Great that no one bothered to inform him.

“Call him, tell to come some other time, say you’re busy,” Stiles says, sounding a little dazed. “Say you have more important issues waiting to get taken care of.”

Derek makes a sound closely resembling a chuckle. “And by _issues_ you mean yourself?”

There’s another sound of a kiss but it’s, thank God, very short and fleeting this time. “Yeah.”

The table creaks just slightly, as if someone’s moving, but then Derek says, “I’m serious, Stiles, stop.”

Stiles clicks his tongue, dissatisfied, and when he speaks, he’s already come up with new strategy but hasn’t given up. “And what if Scott sees, anyway? Is that a problem for you?”

Derek sighs. Scott bets he’s rolling his eyes this very second.

“I don’t know,” he mocks. There’s rustling of fabric barely audible, and Stiles huffs out a half-breathless laugh at something. “For me, no. But maybe you should actually _tell_ your friends we’re dating before any of them _sees_ something.”

Of course they’re _dating_.

“Please,” Stiles snorts, louder this time. “It’s not like we’re particularly subtle about it or something. Kira knew approximately from the moment she first saw us, and Lydia’s so freaking sharp I bet she knew even before _we_ did. Melissa figured out when you saved my dad back then. And, well, even my dad solved the elaborate mystery of _Why does my son spend so much time at Derek Hale’s apartment?_ himself.” Rustling of fabric again; Scott supposes it’s the sound of Stiles shrugging. “So basically, Scott’s the only one oblivious enough not to notice.”

Scott frowns upon hearing that, offended, but then reluctantly realises Stiles is kind of right.

Scott has noticed everybody seemed to be aware of something he was not, fine. It was a little weird, he admits that; perhaps he should have been a little more inquisitive. And all those strange interactions between Derek and Stiles he thought he was reading too much into? All those looks and little touches and that kiss he saw the other night here, in Derek’s loft? It all kind of makes sense now.

He’d just never think… that Derek and Stiles could be together like – like this. They _hated_ each other just a couple of years ago. Scott was pretty sure nothing changed in this department; apparently, he was wrong.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of unfair, though?” Derek asks then, which makes Scott pay attention to them again. “That everyone around you knows and your best friend still doesn’t?”

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a full minute or so.

“I – I know it’s, like, not okay,” he mutters eventually, sounding kind of guilty when he finally speaks. “And I’ll tell him, I swear, it’s just… I think he’ll freak out a little? I mean, I would if I were him. Scott still genuinely believes we don’t really like each other, Derek.”

It’s sometimes scary, Scott can’t help but think, just how well Stiles knows him.

Derek makes a sound in the back of his throat.

“And we _do_ like each other,” he says after a moment, changing the subject for some reason, although it comes out a little bit like a question, too hesitant and weird to sound like a proper statement.

“Well, yeah – obviously,” Stiles answers, the smile clearly audible in his voice now, teasing somehow. “I mean, I like you at least, I don’t know about –“

Derek cuts him off with what it sounds like another kiss and this one is not interrupted by anything; Derek actually seems to have forgotten about the thought of Scott coming by somewhere along the way.

Scott still stands in the hallway like an idiot for a moment, not quite able to process everything he’s seen and heard in the last couple of minutes because it’s still just mainly insane and so strange and how is it possible he hasn’t realised sooner? But then Stiles _moans_ , a high-pitched, almost lewd sound; Derek responds with a growl of his own, and Scott’s suddenly struck by the scent of intensifying arousal.

And that’s enough, he judges, he’s done. He’s getting out of here.

He’s getting out of here _right now_.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus:  
> Stiles tells him two weeks later, cheeks pink but eyes gleaming with happiness, and Scott’s only response is a short, slightly gruff, “I know.”  
> Stiles, refusing to believe it when Scott tells him he simply figured it out at some point, eventually does manage to get everything out of him, every single detail because Stiles is nothing if not stubborn, and then laughs so hard he cries.  
> “I win,” he says, blinking rapidly to get rid of the tears, then repeats louder so that everyone can hear his triumphant cry and fist-pumps the air, “I win!”  
> It turns out that they had some sort of bet going on, he and Derek, on just how long it will take Scott to get to know and if he’ll figure it out himself eventually, because this is the kind of best friend Stiles is, apparently.  
> Scott does not want to know what exactly Stiles’ prize for winning this stupid bet is.
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://angstandcats.tumblr.com) ! ❤️


End file.
